


Vampires on the Quad

by Pink_Dalek



Series: RA Blues [2]
Category: Endeavour
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 13:06:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17601935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Dalek/pseuds/Pink_Dalek
Summary: The next installment of RA Blues. Joan and Morse run into each other at a college blood drive.





	Vampires on the Quad

**BLOOD DRIVE TODAY**

**LADY MATILDA QUAD**

**12-4 PM**

 

 

Joan Thursday looked at the sign for a long moment and sighed. She really should go to her Econ class. God, Econ was boring. It counted as gen ed, but so did any of a dozen classes. She’d signed up in a fit of, “I should understand how this shite works, if I’m to be a proper adult,” but she loathed economics, and if she ever needed to know about it she could look it up or something. She should probably just drop it before the deadline next week, even though it was probably too late to sign up for another class. Living in Oxford, it would be easy to make up the units during the summer.

Besides, she was O negative: universal donor. This would be her good deed for the day. Joan went over to the blood drive van and opened the door.

 

*****

 

Endeavour Morse studied the sign. He should go to his class with Professor Lorimer, but he was dreading it. Felix Lorimer wasn’t the problem; Henry Fallon was. He’d been just a little too smug around Morse since the beginning of Hilary term two weeks before, and Susan had finally admitted that the Fallons had spent New Year’s at the Bryce-Morgan estate. Morse hadn’t been invited, and had spent a miserable holiday at home. Not that Susan’s home would have been much better. Her father treated him decently, but her mother always acted like he’d made a wrong turn at the servants’ entrance.

Morse sighed. Even his blood type wasn’t all that useful. As AB+, he could receive from any type, but could only donate to fellow AB positives. He shrugged and opened the door. If they didn’t want his blood, another rejection wouldn’t kill him.

He immediately recognized Joan Thursday in the tiny waiting area, nose in an Abnormal Psych book. He remembered her aim was to become a clinical social worker and go into counseling. He went to the intake desk. “Do you need any AB positive?”

“Luv, we need whatever we can get,” the woman told him in a Newcastle accent, handing him a clipboard. He filled the form out quickly and returned it. The only empty space was next to Joan, so he swung his backpack from his shoulder and sat next to her, placing it between his feet and pulling out Thucydides’ _History of the Peleponnesian War._

“I see you’ve fallen prey to the vampires, too. What class are you skiving off?” Joan asked drily.

“Athenian History. You?”

“Intro to Econ.”

Morse snorted. “What are you doing in Econ?”

“Dying of boredom. I’m thinking of dropping it. I need Statistics, and I can pick that up during the summer.”

“Do you have a sublet set up already?”

“My parents live in Headington.”

“Oh, that’s right— your father is that terrifying policeman.”

Joan rolled her eyes at his description of her dad. “What are your summer plans?”

“To get a job in town and avoid going home, if I can.”

“Really?” Joan looked at him. “Why?”

“My stepmother hates me, and my father considers me a disappointment.”

“You earned a scholarship to Oxford! Or is he some toff?”

“Hardly,” Morse snorted. “He drives a cab. He can’t decide if I’m getting above myself for attending Oxford, or a fool for studying something as ‘impractical’ as Greats.”

“What about your mum?”

“She died of cancer when I was twelve.”

“I’m sorry.”

Morse shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I’m starting to forget what she was like.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“A little sister, Joyce. Technically my half-sister. She’s eleven. She’s the only one who treats me like family. My parents split up when I was five.”

“Thursday and Morse!”

“That’s our cue,” Joan said. “Have you ever given blood before?” she asked as they were led to the donation room beyond.

“Never.”

“Me neither.”

They were shown to a pair of semi-reclined chairs, then the phlebotomist prepared them, explaining each step in the process. Joan winced as the needle went into her arm, then relaxed as best she could, squeezing the stress ball they gave her to help keep the blood flowing and looking over to see how Morse was faring.

He was always pale, milk-white save for his freckles, but she swore he seemed even paler than usual, carefully looking away as the needle went in and the collection bag was hooked up, breathing deeply. Joan opened up _Facets of Abnormal Psychology, Third Edition_ and went back to reading to pass the time. “I’m going to drop Econ. It’s a waste of time. I might be able to join Modern British Society if I can catch up on the reading. I was looking at the course book and it’s interesting, at least. And useful for a social worker.” There was no answer from her left, and she looked over. Morse was lying with his eyes closed, squeezing his stress ball and breathing very evenly. She wondered if he’d fallen asleep.

“That sounds sensible.” So he was awake after all. Joan went back to her book.

In what seemed no time at all the phlebotomist was unhooking her, removing the needle, and placing a cotton ball over the tiny puncture in her arm, securing it with medical tape. “Lie still for five minutes or so, then I’ll help you get up slowly.”

“Okay. That was easy.”

“Nothing to it. And there’s orange juice and biscuits back in the waiting room.”

Joan looked over at Morse. His collection bag seemed to be filling a bit more slowly than hers, but she’d overheard something about his blood pressure being on the low end of normal when it was checked during prep. “You asleep over there?”

“No.” He sounded a bit grumpy, or maybe preoccupied. It was par for the course. Sometimes she envied the people on the other two floors of their building. Alice Vexin was always planning fun community activities, and had knitted her floor into a sort of family. They’d had a party after finals in December, before everyone left for the holiday, that they were all still talking about. Peter Jakes treated his floor like younger siblings, his door always open, protective and full of advice for navigating college bureaucracy.

Morse, meanwhile, was always serious, didn’t suffer fools or foolishness, and was intimidatingly intelligent. He did crosswords in ink, had an encyclopedic knowledge of classical music, and only swore in Latin. And he was reading Greats, with an eye toward doing his doctorate. He also had a habit of sniffing his first forkful of food in the dining hall at every meal, and was thought to be the source of the rumor that the head cook of their dining hall, an Eastern European woman of Wagnerian build and indeterminate age, was still attempting to undermine the capitalist West with her cooking.

“All right, Morse, it looks like you’re finished.” The phlebotomist’s cheerful disposition ran up against the rocky coast of her patient, but she soldiered on. “I’ll just unhook you from this.”

Morse looked over for the first time in the process, immediately seeing the full bag of dark-red blood hanging above his arm, and the blood-filled tube snaking down to the inner crease of his elbow. The room started to darken around the edges and he felt slightly nauseated. “Oh,” he murmured.

The phlebotomist caught him as he started to topple out of the chair. “Lie back. You’re not the first it’s happened to,” she told him reassuringly. “Lots of people have a funny turn when they see blood. Especially their own.”

Morse squeezed his eyes shut, humiliation vying with dizziness. They made him lie still for twice as long as Joan, and he heard her leave the room.

Joan had her juice and a couple of biscuits. The combination was cloyingly sweet, but if this was the procedure she’d follow it, especially after seeing Morse nearly pass out. She dithered a bit: it seemed the right thing to wait for him, but guys could get weird if they were embarrassed, especially in front of a girl. He might want to be left alone. But then, what if he passed out on the way back to the dorm, or wherever he was going next? She’d earned her First Aid badge years ago in Girl Guides, at least.

She decided to wait. Five minutes later Morse emerged, still looking a bit grey around the edges. Joan quickly poured a cup of orange juice and handed it to him, along with three biscuits on a paper plate. Morse sat heavily in one of the waiting-room chairs and took them.

“That was embarrassing,” he confessed.

Joan shrugged. “It was your first time. And I heard her say your blood pressure was a little low. Dad would love to have low blood pressure. He’s had to give up eating crisps and can barely salt his food now. Where are you going after this?”

“I’m finished for the day. I thought I’d go back to the dorm.”

“I’m headed that way, too. Do you think they’ll have fish and chips tonight at dinner? I’m dying for a chip butty.”

Morse shrugged. “We’re due for spaghetti bolognese. Or some sort of Chicken a la Bland.”

“If it’s chicken again, Shirley and I are going to ring Plato’s Pizza. At least they haven’t poisoned anyone.”

Morse finished his juice and biscuits, and Joan was relieved to see his color had improved. He stood and shrugged into his old jacket, opened the door for her, and they ventured out into the raw January day. Along with her own coat Joan wore a hat and scarf, knitted by her mum, and warm gloves. Morse had none of those things, and she felt suddenly sad that he didn’t have anyone to knit for him. She and Sam had had hats and scarves and jumpers for as long as she could remember, thanks to Mum and Aunt Renie.

“Here.” Joan took off her scarf, going on tiptoe to wind it around Morse’s neck twice before tucking the ends into the front of his faded jacket. “You can borrow it for the trip.”

Morse seemed surprised by the gesture. “Er— thanks.” They crossed the quad, heading along the pavement towards home.

**Author's Note:**

> I got into the habit of sniffing the first forkful of dorm food in college, without realizing it. And used to joke that the cook hadn't heard that WWII was over and was still trying to undermine the US war effort.


End file.
